“Just the same as before,” he said, “and like you, clean and good. Ma chérie, I’m just all out.”
She made him sit down in the chair, and drew up the table so that he could take his supper by the stove. Paul let himself relax, for there was a sharp ache in the muscles that had been bruised by Bibi’s boot. He looked at the stove, at the sleeping dog, at Manon, and the day’s work seemed done.
“Would you like your plate on your lap?”
“No, I’ll turn to the table.”
She did not worry him with questions, sensing his weariness and the happy and human sloth that had fallen upon his body. His face regained its colour; the tired lines were softened; he had the air of a man who was well content.
Presently he lit his pipe, and looked up at her with a flicker of tender humour in his eyes.
“A lot of good that dog was to us! A good name—Philosophe. He got out of the way, like the clever people during the war.”
She gave Philosophe a gentle kick, but he took not the least notice.
“And Bibi?” she asked.
“He’s beaten,” he said; “I believe we have finished with Bibi.”